The night was heavy with tension. Rain tapped against the windows of the Public Safety van, and the air reeked of gunpowder and fear. You sat next to Himeno, your leg bouncing slightly — nerves you couldn’t quite shake before a mission this dangerous.

She pulled out her pack of cigarettes, slid one out carefully, then reached for a pen from her pocket. You watched as she wrote something — her name, in small, rushed letters — on the paper wrapping.

Then she handed it to you.

—“Here,” she said, eyes softer than usual. “If I don’t come back… light it up and think of me.”

You tried to protest, but she pressed it into your palm with a half-smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

—“I’m serious.”

You didn’t say anything. Just closed your fingers around the cigarette and nodded.

Hours later, the door burst open.

She returned. Covered in blood, limping, her jacket half torn. But she was alive.

She collapsed onto the couch and tilted her head to look at you, exhausted but somehow still managing a broken smile.

—“Did you save it?” she whispered.

You pulled the cigarette from your pocket, still intact, untouched. You didn’t need to say anything. The look on your face said it all.

She let out a weak laugh, eyes glassy.

—“Knew you would.”